


To the Moon and Back

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternative Universe - England - date indeterminite, BAMF John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Consensual Rough Sex, Drama & Romance, Elf Sherlock Holmes, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Sacrifice, Peril, Posted on Friday the 13th during a full moon, Rescue, Romance, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Smut, Top John Watson, Violence befitting a werewolf story but not between John and Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, Werewolf John Watson, Whump, forbidden relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 12:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20621396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John Watson has a dark secret; one that he has successfully hidden from his fellow soldiers. When he captures an enemy, an exotic and beautiful young elf named Sherlock, his world is turned upside down. He’s fallen hard for the prisoner, but will he risk everything to have him? And will John be able to control the rough beast that comes out when the moon calls?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Last Halloween season I wrote a vampire Sherlock fic [Sunlight in a World of Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16425509). This year I decided to write John as a werewolf. While it turned out to be nothing like Sunlight, there are minor similarities in the stories. For instance, the role of scent.
> 
> Style notes:  
Internal thoughts are shown in italics, no quotations. This includes internal dialogue between John and his Wolf  
Telepathic dialogue is shown in italics with quotations. 
> 
> Special thank you to [Kameo (BraiinyGirl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brainygiirl/pseuds/Kameo) for her invaluable beta'ing. She won't let me get away with anything!

_ Yeah, I’ll be right beside you _

_ On a roll or off the tracks _

_ To the ends of the earth _

_ To the moon and back _

_ To the moon and back _

[Luke Bryan -To the Moon and](https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=luke+bryan+to+the+moon+and+back&ru=%2fsearch%3fq%3dluke%2bbryan%2bto%2bthe%2bmoon%2band%2bback%26form%3dEDGTCT%26qs%3dHS%26cvid%3d64fc287f2da94124afae72ef66bb00d9%26cc%3dUS%26setlang%3den-US%26elv%3dAQj93OAhDTi*HzTv1paQdngjRDTTFrL39c4lnaFKsDGePh2M0JhXEoY4V%2521JjJmGImZ4tJSyPoRY0qcOAq5zUqpfWQvwhvqLw6kfLiOOVgwiy%26PC%3dDCTS&view=detail&mid=152FE369F47694556BC3152FE369F47694556BC3&rvsmid=B3EAE51970AFC6BC22BAB3EAE51970AFC6BC22BA&FORM=VDRVRV) Back

It was dark but for the moon, visible through the heavy clouds for a heartbeat; two, three...then passing out of sight as the wind roiled them. The night air was heavy and full of scent. Of foliage, deer, dead things, and humans, so many humans. Rustling sounds on all sides drew his attention, and he growled low in his throat, his jaw opening and closing as saliva ran down his chin. The human part of him tried to reason, _ Which way? _ while the beast acted on instinct. And with a scream of “_FOOD! _” which ripped the night as a savage howl, the Wolf that used to be John Watson dropped to all fours and bounded into the forest following the scent of humans.

_ No, stop. Please. Don’t. For the love of god._

The Wolf slowed only briefly and shook his massive grey-brown head, as if to throw off a biting insect, then continued. 

John’s plea was pushed aside, ignored, by the single-minded lupine brain as the beast ran, so fast that its padded feet barely seemed to touch the ground. The trees were a blur as the human scent grew stronger, fresher, driving him mad with want, with hunger, with_ need. _ Primitive need that overshadowed and overwhelmed all reason. The need to bite, to tear, to kill and to eat, _ Oh, to eat._

The Wolf was attuned to the sound of his prey. If there were crickets, frogs, or a pig rooting in the underbrush, he could not hear them, so focused was he on the sound of the human voices which were growing louder. And now, the glow of a fire shone between the trees ahead.

_ BITE! TEAR! KILL! EAT! _

_ Please, n— _

_ EAT! _

The Wolf that used to be John Watson, and was still just a little bit John Watson, slowed as it approached the clearing where the fire burned. Horses tied up nearby snorted and shuffled. The man tending the fire looked up, peering into the darkness. Nearby, a woman sat holding an infant.

_ Ah… Sweet! Tender! _The wolf crouched, fangs bared and dripping.

One of the horses reared, pulling on its rope and whinnying in alarm.

“Margaret. Get behind me,” the man said, reaching for his knife. But it was too late. 

The great Wolf sprang, its muscles uncoiling with the strength of ten men as it leapt over the fire, its jaws finding purchase on the neck, which snapped like a twig. He dropped the man and followed the woman who, clutching her infant, had turned to run. In vain. _ Foolish woman. _He landed upon her back, and they tumbled to the ground. She fought to protect her treasure, pleading. The Wolf didn’t hear her supplications. But John did.

As his fangs sank into succulent flesh, _ BITE! TEAR! _John tasted what the Wolf tasted, the essence of the child's life, bright, sweet and full of promise, as it flowed hot over his tongue. And it was good. 

********

"NO!" John woke, his heart thundering in his chest. As his eyes opened, it took a moment to register his surroundings. His tent. His knapsack. His blanket, twisted around him, drenched with his sweat. He hurt all over. He closed his eyes again hard; trying with all his might to push the beast down. Opening them once more, he held his shaking hands in front of him. The claws and fur which had begun to erupt were retreating. He touched his face and felt only his beard, no snout. And, when he ran his tongue over his teeth, only a hint of fangs. A dream. This time. The moon wasn’t full tonight. But in another week, it would be, and John knew he didn’t have the strength to defeat the beast that dwelt within him when the moon called.

“Oh, god!” John took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. He didn’t always have these dreams, but they came more frequently as the full moon approached and he woke to find himself in varying states of transformation. To his relief, no one had been assigned to share his tent, and his dark secret had been kept. Both of his secrets had so far been kept from the men in his battalion. It was exhausting, and he didn’t know how much longer he could continue. At some point, he was bound to make a mistake.

“You all right, mate? It’s Stamford.” A round head, its features hidden by the darkness, poked through the tent flap.

“Yeah, fine. Just a bad dream.”

“Blimey! Sounded like you were being tortured in here.”

John managed a small laugh. “It was something like that.”

“Well y’best get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. There’ll be a scouting trip in a few hours, and you’ll need to be alert. Those elves are crafty. And quick.”

“Aye.”

Stamford reached into his pocket. “I’ve got whiskey, rotgut stuff, but I think maybe you could use it. He held out a flask and John looked at it for several seconds before accepting. He rarely risked the weakness and impaired judgment that came with hard drink. But tonight, after that nightmare, he decided to make an exception.

“Thanks, Stamford.”

“You’re welcome. G’night.”

After Stamford went back to his own tent, John drained the flask and fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was just brightening the sky when John emerged from his tent the next morning, his head pounding a little from the whiskey. But it had kept the dreams away, and so, on balance, he concluded that it had been the right decision. In the morning light, the nightmare seemed distant and the gruesome details less horrifying. After relieving himself and taking the bread and coffee offered by the cook, he joined the other men gathered outside the lieutenant’s tent.

“Men!” Lieutenant Lestrade shouted. “Listen up! This morning we are going to scout these woods for the enemy. We are outside elven territory, so it shouldn’t be dangerous. I don’t expect any spells or traps. But be on high alert, nonetheless. There have been reports of elves venturing from Aelveden and, if we can capture one, he or she may be able to give us information on how to make it through the Border Woods and, if we are very lucky, the location of the Aelfstone.” 

“Lieutenant, aren’t we in neutral territory?” someone asked. “Isn’t that against the Agreement?”

“Private, I follow orders, and our orders are to capture any elf we find, no matter where. **Alive**.”

There were groans from some of the men.

“Alive,” Lestrade repeated with a stern look. “We’ll send out two scouting parties. Barlow, take Miller and Wendersham. Head east along the river. Watson. Take Stamford and Anderson and head west. We’re keeping the groups small so that we can maintain the element of surprise.”

“Can’t surprise an elf,” Stamford muttered. “They have bloody amazing hearing, and I’ve heard they can read minds.”

“Bollocks,” Anderson said. “Just stories meant to scare us off. I don’t think they’re so special, and I can’t wait to catch one of those arrogant knobs. Claiming they have the sole right to the magic of the Aelfstone. Keeping it for themselves all these centuries while men suffer. Fair folk, my arse. They're scum!”

“We have our orders,” John said. Whether their powers are real or just stories to keep us away, it doesn’t matter. We serve His Majesty. “If he wishes us to capture elves, that is what we shall do. We ride in twenty minutes.”

********

The sun, now high overhead, peeked through the foliage, dappling the men and their horses. They’d been riding for hours with nothing to show for it but a rabbit that Anderson had killed with his slingshot, and that now hung from his saddle. The cook would stew it for their dinner tonight. They rode in silence, the only sound, the thudding of the horses’ hooves on the earth and the soft chuffing sounds they made with their noses. Travelling west, they had an advantage over the eastbound group. The wind was blowing from the west, and this lessened the chance that their sound or scent would give them away.

It was a bright, October day. Birds were chirping, and the soft rush of the river, just twenty metres away, was almost hypnotic. Everything was a lush green from recent rains with only a smattering of red and gold, but even greener and more lush on the far side of the river. This side was supposedly neutral territory, while on the other side lay the Border Woods, a treacherous but beautiful strip of land that guarded the valley of Aelveden, where the elves lived. The virtually impenetrable woods kept the elvish kingdom safe from men or other intruders. The woods were rumoured to be full of magic, spells to drive men mad, and hideous creatures disguised as beautiful beckoning maidens, who, when kissed, show their true form and devour their suitor. _ Wouldn’t work on me, _ John mused, _ not unless they were handsome men_.

When they stopped to refill their canteens and let the horses drink, John noticed Anderson’s dark expression.

“What’s troubling you, Anderson?”

“I was hoping we’d have more luck! We’ve been at it for hours. Where are the elves? I’m beginning to think we’re looking in the wrong direction, that the other scouting party will find them to the east. If that insufferable Miller captures one, he’ll be…even more insufferable!”

“Aye,” Stamford said, “And why would any elf be on this side of the Border Woods? It doesn’t make any sense. They’d be vulnerable here, even if it’s supposed to be neutral. I think we're just going to have a nice ride and come back empty-handed. Which is fine with me. I could use a pint and a kip about now—"

“Shh! Listen,” John whispered, holding up a hand.

They froze and listened.

“I don’t hear anything,” Anderson said.

“Nor I,” Stamford added.

“The music,” John said, cocking his head.

The other two men looked at him, confused. “What music?” they said in unison.

There was most definitely music. The melody, faint but unquestionably there, carried on the breeze. But John was the only one who could hear it. Of course, only he could hear it. _ Because I’m the only one who’s a bloody werewolf. _

“It’s gone now,” John lied. “But I thought I heard something. Leave the horses, we’ll go on foot.”

They picked their way slowly through the trees, taking care not to step on fallen branches. John and Stamford drew their swords, and Anderson carried his slingshot.

The music was getting louder. John kept silent, waiting for the other men to notice. To get close enough so that their human ears would register the sound. It was haunting and lyrical. And the closer they got, the more he wanted to stop. To turn back. To leave the creature making this beautiful music in peace. But that was impossible. And so, they crept forward.

The breeze stiffened, rustling the leaves. With the moving air came the first hint of scent; a sweet smell that John couldn’t place. It wasn’t quite like flowers and not quite like spice. It was earthy and sensual and erotic. It reached places deep within him and he wanted more of it. Much more. It was making him dizzy, and he looked at his companions to see if they were affected. They were not. So, he wiped the sweat from his brow and stayed silent. His heightened senses would give him away if he weren’t careful. He needed to try to be ordinary. Human.

Now they were close enough that the other men could hear. “Elves!” Anderson mouthed excitedly, taking a stone from the pouch at his waist and fitting it into the slingshot. John frowned and shook his head. “Stamford. The net!” he hissed.

Stamford took the elf net from his pack and unfolded it. It was made of a strong, lightweight rope that had been soaked in bilberry juice, a substance thought to weaken elves. John tightened his grip on his sword. They didn’t know yet how many or what adversaries they were dealing with. Best case, it would be one or two elves which they could handle easily. Worst case, it was a band of trolls, and they would have a difficult fight on their hands.

The trees here were thick, and they used them as cover as they inched forward toward the source of the music. And the smell_. _John shook his head to clear it. The scent was distracting, rousing him in places he didn’t need to have roused right now. When what he needed to do was focus on the task at hand.

Ahead was a clearing along the river, bathed in sunshine, and…teeming with creatures. Rabbits sat in the grass, eyes round, and their jaws working as they chewed the clover. A doe stood with her fawn. Squirrels ran about, frolicking. What was most curious about the tableau was that a grey wolf lay among these prey animals, its great pink tongue hanging from its mouth, ears pricked. Listening. And ignoring the dozen or so potential meals all around it, meals that seemed bizarrely unaware of the danger. All of the animals appeared to be under the spell of the music being played by the lone elf reclining against a tree.

The elf was a young male, with flowing black hair which hung free in waves about his slim shoulders. The tips of his pointed ears peeked out, confirming his race. His skin was pale and his features pleasing, with a retroussé nose and high cheekbones. Except for the raven hair, these were the traits of the Light-elves, the elves that inhabited Aelveden. And just the sort they had been sent to capture.

The three men stood motionless, watching the elf. He held a lyre and his long fingers moved delicately over the strings, the source of the beautiful melody that filled the clearing and was apparently bewitching the woodland creatures. John was transfixed by the sight of the exquisite youngling. His hair, his skin, his slightly parted lips. _ Oh my god, he is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. _ The elf must have bathed in the river, for he was clad only in green trousers. His boots, cloak and other garments lay nearby. His pale chest was smooth and hairless. He wore a pendant around his neck on a string and, tattooed on his shoulder, was an intricate design of leaves and vines. Every inch of him was… _ willowy. _ That was the word that came to John’s mind. Slender and supple, yet strong, like a willow branch.

John paused and exhaled, staring, sword arm falling to his side before he caught himself. He was just about to motion Stamford to ready the net when there was a loud snapping sound as someone trod upon a twig.

The music stopped abruptly, and the elf’s head turned, his eyes wide. _And so blue_. At that moment, something whizzed by John’s ear.

“Wha—”

His question was cut short by a thunk and a cry of pain. He turned back to the clearing just in time to see the elf fall into the grass, the lyre tumbling from his hands, then lie unmoving. With the spell broken, the animals fled in all directions.

“Blimey,” Stamford said.

“What did you DO? ” John shouted, wheeling on Anderson.

“He spotted us. He would have gotten away,” Anderson said defensively, slingshot still raised.

“Damn you! You’d better pray he’s alive!” John said over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the downed elf, Stamford and Anderson close behind.

The wolf had not fled with the other creatures, and John stopped short when he found himself face to face with it. Its grey fur stood up along its back as it crouched threateningly. Its teeth were bared, and John could hear the low growl in the animal’s throat. Its gold eyes gleamed and met with John’s. Seconds passed. The growls ceased. All but the wolf receded into the periphery of John’s awareness as they stared each other down.

_ “Brotherrrr.” _ The words drifted over John’s mind like smoke. They were unspoken and not in English, but he understood them perfectly. The wolf was addressing him telepathically. 

John was suddenly aware of Anderson, now beside him, reaching into his pouch for another stone. Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on answering the wolf with his mind.

_ “Run my friend. Now!” _

The grey wolf spun on its haunches and sped away before Anderson could get a shot. “Bloody hell!” he muttered.

“Forget the wolf!” John said as he approached the wounded elf cautiously. He lay on his side, his dark hair covering his face. He hadn’t moved. John grasped his shoulder and rolled him to his back. Blood flowed from a deep gash at his temple and streaked his alabaster skin. His eyes were closed. John bent close to the elf’s face. Soft, warm breath. _He’s alive._ And the scent. This close, the smell was strong and he felt the Wolf within him stir. 

“He’s alive! Stamford! Get me something to staunch this wound!” He slapped the elf’s blood-streaked cheek. Nothing. Stamford pulled off his shirt and dipped it into the river. He handed it to John, who swabbed the blood from the elf’s face and pressed it against the wound. He really was just a boy._ A_ _ beautiful boy. _

The elf’s eyelids fluttered, then opened, trying to focus, and John realised that he had been mistaken. The elf’s eyes were not blue. They weren’t any single colour, but a pale swirling blue, green-grey, with copper flecks, changing with the light. Twin kaleidoscopes. As their eyes met, something in John’s soul shifted. He felt the Wolf stir again and beg for release. _ Go away, _John entreated. 

Then, recovering, John said, “Elf. You have been captured by the British Army and you are now a prisoner of the His Majesty the King. You will be taken to our camp where you will be interrogated. Your only hope is to cooperate.”

The injured elf looked at John defiantly with his kaleidoscope eyes and laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

“Watson! You’ll take the midnight to dawn shift,” Lestrade bellowed. “Yes, Sir,” John said, trying to hide his smile. He’d hoped to guard the elf and, now that Lestrade had assigned him to it, he didn’t have to volunteer.

They had brought the prisoner back to camp, hands tied behind his back, on the white horse they found nearby. There had been no saddle or bridle, the animal seemed bound to his master by some invisible bond. They placed a rope around its neck, and the elf rode bareback. Weak from his head wound, they had to stop twice to revive him with water from their canteens when he slumped over his steed’s neck and might have fallen.

When they arrived, the elf was pulled from his horse, and he lay in the dirt on his side, hands still bound behind his back, his forehead still bleeding. The men formed a circle around him, but most warily kept their distance.

“What is your name, elf?” Lestrade demanded.

“Sherlock,” the elf replied evenly.

“And what can you tell us of Aelveden and the Border Woods?”

“What do you want to know?”

“How to cross the woods safely.”

“To kill my people, steal our property?” 

“To take what should be ours.”

“I know nothing. I can’t help you.”

Anderson kicked the elf in the stomach, and he gasped in pain. Another soldier kicked him in the back.

“Talk, elf scum!” Anderson demanded.

“Enough!” Lestrade said, pulling Anderson back. “We’ll put him in the cage and wait for General Moriarty. He’ll be here by the end of the week, and he can decide what to do with the prisoner.”

“My horse,” the elf said faintly, still curled up in the dirt.

“What about your horse?”

“Take care of him, please.”

“You just worry about yourself,” Lestrade said. “Watson, Stamford. Lock him up.”

John and Stamford helped the elf to his feet and led him to an iron cage, three metres square and just high enough for him to stand, at the edge of the camp. It contained a bucket and nothing else. 

“My horse,” Sherlock said again, looking at John.

“Your horse will be cared for,” John said.

“His name is Aelfwyn.”

John nodded. “He’s beautiful.” 

The iron door clanged shut and was locked. The key would be kept by Lestrade, and the elf’s fate would be in his hands, or rather, in the hands of General Moriarty. John had never met Moriarty, but his cleverness and ruthlessness were legendary. He had distinguished himself in the Second Troll War and risen quickly in the military ranks, becoming one of the youngest generals in the realm. Rumour had it he had a taste for men. Such depravity was forbidden in the military, but in John’s experience, men with power like Moriarty or members the Royal Family and their court, lived above the laws that applied to ordinary folk. 

Stamford pocketed the key and started back to deliver it to Lestrade. John lingered for a moment, biting his lip and watching the elf. Inhaling a few more lungsful of the intoxicating scent. The elf sat slumped against the bars, his head on his knees, blood-streaked face hidden. Although tall, he looked small and frail, and John’s heart sank as he looked at the young elf. He could only imagine what General Moriarty would do to him.

“I’ve got first watch.”

“What?” John was snapped from his thoughts by a tap on the shoulder. It was Hopkins.

“I’ve got first watch. See you at midnight,” the short, bearded soldier said.

“All right. Yes. See you then.”

Before leaving, John tapped on the bars and said in a low voice. “You’d best cooperate, or things won’t go well for you.” The elf turned his head slightly and fixed one eye on John from behind a curtain of hair. The gaze seemed to go right through him. No, not through him, that wasn’t quite right. It went into him, penetrating, ** knowing**_, _and John stepped back quickly, turned on his heel, and strode away.

********

The white horse was tied with the other horses about twenty metres from camp. He was tall and graceful like the elves themselves, with a silvery-white coat and long, flowing mane and tail. Only his muzzle was dark. When John approached, his nostrils flared, and he pulled against the rope. John halted and spoke in a soothing voice.

“Hey, boy. Hey, Aelfwyn. Calm down now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Instead of calming, the white horse pawed the ground and whinnied, the whites of his eyes showing as he pulled again against the rope.The other horses looked at the agitated animal with interest, then went back to dozing or nibbling on leaves.

Maybe the white horse could sense what he was. Fortunately, he’d never had any problems around horses, or any other animals while he was in human form. But an elf’s horse? Maybe an elf’s horse had special magic or heightened perception. John wasn’t going to stay around long enough for the disturbance to attract attention. Satisfied that the horse wasn’t hurt and hadn’t been mistreated, he headed back toward camp. 

Anderson’s rabbit, along with other game caught that day, had been added to a stew and it smelled delicious. The other men were already sitting on logs or on the ground, eating and talking. John took his ration and a mug of ale and looked around until he found Stamford.

“Mind if I join you.”

“Yeah, I guess I can move my fat arse over,” Stamford said, scooting to make room for him on the log.

All around, the men were talking about the capture of the elf and the upcoming arrival of General Moriarty.

“Tell us again how you captured him!” 

Anderson stepped into the centre of the gathering, his chest puffed out.

“It was easy! My aim was true. He dropped like a stone, never knew what hit him! Docile as a lamb afterwards, he was.”

This elicited a smattering of laughter and cheers from the men.

John stood up. “It was damn reckless. You could’ve killed him!”

“The only good elf is a dead elf!” someone said.

“Our mission was to **capture** . Can’t get information from a dead elf, now can you?” John retorted. He could feel heat rising in his cheeks, and his hands clenched into fists. He glared at Anderson, who just smirked.

“Men!” Lestrade interrupted. “What’s done is done. But Watson is right. That was a foolish risk you took Anderson. Next time, think.”

“Yes, Sir,” Anderson said, but the smirk remained.

“So, we’ve got ourselves an elf,” Lestrade continued. “I’ve sent word to General Moriarty. I expect he’ll want to come and do the interrogation himself. In the meantime, I plan to do my own questioning. He’ll be guarded around the clock. And I advise you to be careful. We’re not sure what kind of powers he might have. He’s young, so they might not yet be fully developed. As a reminder, Light-elves have power over nature. The plants and animals and such. They are intelligent, quick and agile. What we need from him is safe passage through the Border Woods so that we can attack Aelveden. The endgame is the Aelfstone. Guarded for centuries by these Light-elves, it is the primary source of their magic. The King wants it very badly. If we can obtain it for him, there will be a rich reward for each of you.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Stamford said, taking a swig of ale. “But poor bastard. I hate to think of what Moriarty will do to him.”

“Have you met him? Moriarty?” John asked.

“Only once, and it was enough for me. He’s a scary fucker. Got a look in his eyes like there’s a shit-load of crazy in there. Like he would tear you open and eat your heart without giving it a second thought. Wouldn’t want to be on his bad side. Or be his enemy, like our elf friend. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll give Lestrade what he wants before Moriarty gets here.” 

“How long before he arrives d’you reckon?”

“Dunno. With favourable weather it’s at least a two-day ride to the city, so best case, or worst case depending on your perspective, I’d say five days.” Stamford paused for a moment, deep in thought. “Say, whadya make of all the animals we saw. And that wolf…you and that wolf—"

“Elf magic I expect,” John said quickly, getting to his feet. “I’m going to have a little kip in my tent. I’ve got watch tonight.”

As he walked toward his tent. John’s mind was racing. The elf. The strange exotic creature in the cage. John was a soldier and a fucking werewolf for god’s sake. He’d killed before, many times. Both as a man and as a wolf. So why did he even care what happens to an enemy prisoner? And why this one? _ Watson. Just do your job. _ In five days, Moriarty would be here. By the end of the week, the elf would probably be dead. And that wasn’t the worst of it. By the end of the week, the moon would be full.


	4. Chapter 4

“He’s all yours,” Hopkins said, gathering his belongings.

“Ta. Did he give you any trouble?”

“Not a bit. Gentle as a kitten. Just sat there like that.” He nodded toward the cage where the elf sat facing away from them, back against the bars, hugging his knees.

After Hopkins bade John goodnight and departed, John unfolded his blanket and settled against a tree a few metres from the cage to study the captive.

They hadn’t given the elf his clothing or boots back, so he was still clad only in his dark green trousers. An ugly purple bruise bloomed on the left side of his back just below his hair. At the sight of it, John frowned and clenched his jaw. _ Animals. _Then the irony of this thought almost made him laugh. His musings were cut short when the sweet scent of the elf entered John’s nostrils, and he groaned. Lifting his nose, he inhaled deeply, then licked his lips. The Wolf shifted but didn’t demand release. Not yet.

John was relieved that while the Wolf was responding to the scent, it was going to be manageable; otherwise, this night could turn disastrous. As it was, he thought he could sit here and breathe it in all night long. At first, it had been earthy, like the smell of the forest after a summer rain, but now it reminded John of butterscotch. Like the colour of the elf’s eyes, his scent shifted and changed, but one thing was constant, it was…delicious. _ Can a smell be delicious? _ John decided that it could be. But not delicious in the way that a steak or a strawberry was delicious. The wolfen part of him that was responding wasn’t slavering over a potential meal. It was a very different kind of hunger, a deep longing that vibrated through his body.

The elf hadn’t moved. Curiosity got the better of John, and he rose quietly to his feet and advanced towards the cage until he was an arm’s length from the bars and could see that the elf was shivering in the chilly night air, and that there were goosebumps on his white skin. John frowned. He wasn’t supposed to engage with the captive. Until they knew what his powers were, it was risky. But this elf didn’t look like a threat, he looked cold and hurt, and he smelled so delicious. _ Could be dangerous. But since when have I ever shied away from danger? _He took another step.

“How long?” 

The voice startled him.

“What?”

“How long, lycanthrope? How long have you been cursed?” The elf’s head, still resting on his arms, turned again, until one eye peered out between locks of hair. One mesmerising eye that John could just make out by the light of the moon.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said, stiffening.

“Suit yourself.” The elf turned away.

“You’re cold.” John could think of nothing else to say and he had desperately wanted to change the subject. He immediately regretted this statement of the obvious.

The elf laughed mirthlessly. “That would seem to be the least of my problems.”

“I’ve got a blanket. I’ll give it to you.” _ What the hell am I doing? _

The elf looked up again. Two eyes this time.

“Thank you.”

John retrieved the blanket and passed it through the bars to the elf, who had shifted and now sat in the corner, turned, so that John could see his whole face. The gash on his forehead from Anderson’s rock was swollen and scabbed, and there were streaks of dried blood on his cheek. As he reached for the blanket, John noticed his large hands and long delicate fingers.

“I’ll have to take it back before the next shift starts.”

“I understand,” the elf said, as he pulled the blanket around his bare shoulders.

John set to building a small fire not far from the cage, one that would serve both to keep him warm and provide some light. Heavy clouds had gathered overhead, blocking the moon and John wanted to keep the elf in sight, mostly as a precaution, but also because he was lovely to look at. When the fire was blazing, he sat on the ground, at what he judged a safe distance from the bars, but close enough to enjoy the scent, which had taken on earthy notes again.

“I can’t hurt you. No need to be afraid,” the elf said. 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I’m quick, I’ve got some abilities you lack, but I can’t bend these bars.”

“Your name’s Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Odd name for an elf.”

“I’m an odd elf.”

“I’m John.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry about your head. That wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be the net.”

The elf shrugged.

“Things will go easier for you if you cooperate, you know.”

“I’m not a traitor.” The elf fixed his eyes on John, and the reflection of the flames danced in them.

“Fair enough. What were you doing in the neutral territory anyway?”

The elf took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Running away. Defying my parents and my brother.”

“Oh. I understand that. I did the same. Ran off to join the army when I was sixteen. I’ve been here ever since. Thirteen years.”

“So, you enjoy being a soldier?”

“Most days, yes.”

“And today?”

John hesitated. “I serve the King. It’s not my place to pass judgment.”

“He seeks what doesn’t belong to him.”

“Isn’t that what war is? Nations, or kings rather, seeking to take, to conquer, to steal. To acquire more power. Always more power. Always more war. And without war, I’d be out of a job.”

“You’re a cynic!”

“I’m a soldier.” 

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

John took his canteen from his belt and hesitated.

“I can’t hurt you,” the elf repeated.

“How old are you?” John asked. The prisoner looked like a teenager. 

“A little older than you, but quite young for an elf. And really, how would hurting you benefit me? If I were to kill you, then I would surely pay for it at dawn. As I said, I can’t bend these bars, and I know you don’t possess the key to this cage.”

John took a step nearer. Sherlock looked at the canteen and licked his dry lips. _ Those full lips. _ John pulled the plug from the neck and Sherlock grasped the bars of the cage and tilted his head.

John tipped the canteen, and water flowed out and into the elf’s open mouth. He gulped and swallowed again and again. Then, sated, wiped his hand across his mouth.

“Thank you again, John. I am in your debt.”

This was the first time the elf had said his name, and the way it sounded, in his low, silky voice, sent tingles racing down John’s spine. They were close, and John took the opportunity to take in the details. The elf was indeed beautiful and fine-boned, but strong. The word willowy again came to John’s mind. In addition to the pendant, he had a gold hoop in each ear, and, in the right ear about halfway up, he wore an earring set with a small greenish stone. At this distance, Sherlock’s scent was almost overwhelming, and John closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the elf was staring at him. His lips quirked up in a knowing half-smile.

John stepped back, re-plugging the canteen.

“All right then. Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“I know you smell me.”

“Pardon?”

The elf smiled. “Lycanthrope. I sense that you fight your nature. I can feel your Wolf pacing and your fear. If we had met under different circumstances, I could teach you to embrace him, to control him. He is part of you, John, like it or not.”

John took another step backwards. “Shut the fuck up! I shouldn’t have talked to you. You… and your… tricks. You’ll be dead before the week is over.” He stalked to the other side of the fire, sat down, and crossed his arms across his chest. When he finally looked back at the cage, Sherlock was curled up under the blanket on the floor, facing away. 

_ How could he know? _

John sighed and poked the fire with a stick, coaxing it to release more heat. So far, he had kept his secret from everyone. Then this elf, this…boy…saw right through him. If he knew about the Wolf, did he also sense John’s other secret? 

_ Sod it._ Once this watch was over; he’d be done with the elf forever. When Moriarty got here, the boy wouldn’t stand a chance. John grimaced. The thought of Sherlock at the mercy of Moriarty made his stomach churn. _ You going soft, Watson?_

But the scent, the cheekbones, the slim hips and the pleasing curve of his arse… Against his better judgment, John knew without a doubt that he was going to volunteer for watch again tomorrow night.


	5. Chapter 5

John passed the blanket through the bars. As the elf again accepted it gratefully, John noticed a new bruise on his cheek and blood caked in one of his nostrils, and he felt anger rising in him, and the inexplicable need to protect this singular creature, even as he felt the equal desire to ravage him. 

“So, did you give Lestrade what he wanted?”

“No.”

“He’s going to keep hurting you. And when General Moriarty gets here…”

The elf bristled. “I’m not going to betray my people. Your king will not have the stone.”

Sherlock sat with his back against the cage and John did the same, less than a foot away. It was reckless. If the elf was as quick and strong as John thought he was, he could have an arm around his neck in an instant. But somehow John knew that he wouldn’t.

“You came back.”

“Yeah, I came back.”

“I’m glad. I appreciate the company, and the blanket—”

“How did you know?” John demanded abruptly.

“What? About your curse? It’s obvious. Well, it’s obvious to **me**. Your fingernails, your eyebrows, the tinge of yellow in your eyes when the light hits them just right. After I was captured, I heard the men, Stamford and Anderson, I think, talking about the ‘moment’ you had with that wolf in the forest. And then there’s the fact that you can smell me. You are clearly a lycanthrope, a werewolf.”

“Aye,” John whispered. “God help me, I am.” He’d never said it aloud to anyone, and now he’d admitted it to an enemy captive. 

“How long?”

“Three years.”

“I want to hear about it. Will you tell me how it happened?”

“Why?”

“Because being in a cage is mind-numbingly boring and I’d enjoy a story. Especially one that promises to be full of danger and intrigue.” 

“Danger? Yes. Intrigue? Not sure about that.” John closed his eyes and sighed, remembering. “I was out hunting alone. I’d had no luck, and it was getting dark. I was walking back to camp when I saw him. He just appeared out of nowhere right in front of me. He was massive, with these…fangs. I will never forget the moonlight glinting on those fangs. His fur was black as coal, and there he was, standing on his hind legs. I froze. I have never been so terrified in my life. I had my bow and arrows on my back, but there was no time to use them. I drew my knife and rolled sideways just as he leapt. That move saved me, but in a way, it also doomed me. His claw caught my shoulder as I rolled. He was on me in a split second, but I was ready. Before he could bite, I stabbed him in the muzzle.”

“You shouldn’t have survived.”

“It was my knife. A steel blade coated with silver.”

“Oh, of course. Silver!”

“Yes, silver causes a werewolf great pain and temporary weakness. The werewolf let out a shriek of pain so loud, I swear the Scots could have heard it, and it let me go. I ran. I ran as fast as I could and never looked back. As far as I know, it didn’t follow me.”

“But the scratch.”

“Yeah, the scratch. I prayed that I wasn’t infected, that I wasn’t a monster, but I was. I am.” John blinked back tears as he remembered the infant from his dream, and so many other innocents. “I’ve killed people.”

“You’re a soldier. Isn’t that your day job?”

“I’ve eaten people!”

“Yes, that is problematic,” Sherlock agreed.

‘Problematic?” John said incredulously. “Problematic? It’s fucking ghastly! But do you know what’s even more horrible?”

“That you enjoy it.”

“Yes. I’m ashamed to say that in some ways I do. It’s exhilarating to be so powerful, so uninhibited, and feel like nothing can stop you. It’s better than any drug.”

“I told you last night that I thought he could be controlled. I meant that.”

“How?” 

“Practice and meditation perhaps. But mostly, I think you need to accept him. It’s just my theory.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Your theory is rubbish.”

“Are you a turnskin? Can you change at will?”

“No. At least I’ve never tried. It usually only happens with the full moon or during dreams, and occasionally, when I’m very angry, but only at night. And I always shift back by dawn. It’s as if the moon calls me to it, and into a dark madness, and the sun brings me home. Although sometimes feel him—the Wolf, in the daytime, just below the surface. Lurking, waiting, whispering to me.” John dropped his head into his hands. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Of course. But will you look at me first?”

John turned to face Sherlock, his hand grasping one of the bars that separated them. Tentatively, Sherlock placed his hand over John’s, sending a warm pulse of pleasure into John’s gut. Their faces were only inches apart, close enough to feel the other’s breath. 

The kaleidoscope eyes were fixed on him. “I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re a man who needs to make peace with himself. I sense your strength. Not just in your muscles, which I can clearly see, but in your soul. It runs deep. All power has an element of darkness. You call this part of you your curse, but I call it your gift, and it excites me. I want to feel it, to drown in it, to submit to it.” He hesitated, then continued. “John, I think I’d like you to kiss me.”

John held his breath. The night was silent but for crickets, and the elf’s words which were echoing in his head. The moment seemed to go on forever as they looked at one another between the bars of the cage. Sherlock’s lips were so full and his lashes so long. _ Kiss him_. _ Kiss him now. _

Then John’s breath went out in a whoosh and he pulled back, withdrawing his hand and running it through his hair.

“Um well, I don’t really know what to do with that.”

“I think you do.”

“Nope, not gonna happen. Can’t happen.”

“Why not? Give me a reason.”

“I’ll give you three. One, you are my prisoner, two, you are the enemy, three, it would be treason.” John ticked each one on his fingers. 

The elf smiled.

“Why are you smiling.”

“Because ‘I don’t want to’ wasn’t one of your reasons.”

“You precocious little shit!”

Sherlock shrugged, still smiling. “Will you come back tomorrow?

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise.” _What am I saying? Of course, I’m coming back. Moriarty himself couldn’t keep me away_. “Is there anything you need? Anything you’d like?”

“Actually, two things. First, please check on Aelfwyn, I miss him. And second, and I know this is asking a lot, a bucket of water and a sponge. Elves are fastidiously clean folk, and I’m filthy.” He looked down at himself and grimaced. “It would feel so good to get the dirt and blood off, even for a little while.” 

“That might be too risky, but I’ll see what I can do. You should probably get some sleep now.”

“Right.” The elf stretched out on the floor of the cage and fixed his eyes once again on John. “Whatever happens, I want you to know that I’m grateful for your kindness.”

********

As the elf slept, John watched him with fascination. They had been so close, and Sherlock clearly wanted him. Why hadn’t he kissed him? His excuses, ‘captive, enemy, treason,’ were valid, but also total bullshit. And since when did John Watson ever shrink from danger? Never. He prided himself on his brashness and bravery, always the first to volunteer for a risky mission, always leading the charge, and it had served him well in his career. _But now... _He watched the elf’’s chest rise and fall under the blanket. Watched his parted lips. He imagined kissing those lips, that long white neck, the collarbone, then lingering at those pink nipples. Lapping, sucking. He was so exquisite, so **willowy**_. Danger indeed. _

But the fact remained that he would be dead within the week. _Dammit._ Possessiveness surged and John tried to push it away but couldn’t. His hand had drifted to his cock, and he stroked himself through his trousers as the fire sputtered and the dying embers glowed orange. As his breathing quickened, the Wolf came nearer to the surface. It was hungry, but not for the taste of flesh. It wanted. Wanted to take, to possess, to thrust. It frightened him, and it thrilled him at the same time. He unfastened his trousers and slipped a hand inside. Grasping his hard cock, he began to roll his hips, pushing into his fist and biting the knuckles of his other hand to muffle the sounds of his pleasure. When he came, spilling hot over his hand, and gasping for air, it was Sherlock’s name he whispered into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

“What’s with the bucket, mate?” Hopkins asked when John arrived for his shift the following evening.

“He insulted me last night,” John lied. “I figured if he did it again, I’d douse him with cold water. Won’t leave a mark, but I reckon it’ll make him uncomfortable enough to think twice before disrespecting me again.”

“Aye, the night does get cold,” Hopkins chuckled. “Good thinking. You say he insulted you? Hasn’t said a word on my watch. Just sits there like a stone. Unnatural, if you ask me.” He looked over his shoulder at the elf who sat staring at them, expressionless, and added. “Gives me the creeps.”

As soon as Hopkins was out of sight, Sherlock rose and came to the bars, grinning widely.

“Smooth, John. You lie easily. I’ll need to remember that.”

“Careful, or I _ will _ douse you with cold water.”

John set to making a fire, then left to fetch water from the river. When he returned, he placed the metal bucket in the flames then turned to Sherlock.

“I checked on Aelfwyn like you asked. He won’t let me near him, I think he senses the Wolf. But as far as I can tell, he’s well. He’s a magnificent horse.”

“He is, I raised him from a colt. He’s my best friend.”

“Your best friend is a horse? Don’t you have…friends that are actual elves?”

“Not really. I’m not well-liked. As I told you, I’m an odd elf. It’s one of the reasons I ran away.”

“I’d like to hear about that. Last night we talked about me and my secrets. It’s only fair that we talk about yours tonight.”

The elf looked at John intently, studying him. Finally, he said, “John, what you’ve done for me tonight,” he gestured toward the bucket of water on the fire, “the risk you took, makes me think I can trust you. What I’m about to tell you, it could endanger my people, and me as well.” He looked around and laughed sadly. “Not that my prospects are promising.” Taking a step closer and grasping the bars, he asked, “Can I trust you, John?”

This had already gone so much further than John could have ever imagined. Providing aid and comfort to an enemy. Confiding in him. _ What the hell. _

“You can trust me.”

The elf inhaled deeply. “I’m not just an ordinary elf. He hesitated. “I’m the second son of Evandar.”

John gasped. “**King ** Evandar? You’re a prince?”

“That’s me. Prince Sherlock. Hello.” The elf waved. “Well, Prince _ William _actually. Sherlock’s just one of my middle names. I thought it safer to use. Please continue to call me Sherlock, though. It suits me, I think.”

“Fuck.” John took a moment to digest this information. He had captured a member of the Royal fucking Family. He stroked his chin. “Fuck.” He said again.

“Your way with words is impressive, John. I’m not the favourite son by any measure. Mycroft, my older brother, is next in line to the throne and far more powerful. I’m just a disappointment mostly.”

John, having regained his composure, asked, “Disappointment? How?”

“I never behaved like they thought I should behave. I couldn’t live up to their expectations. I wanted to play music. I wanted adventure, sensation, and stimulation, not pageantry and ceremony. Oh, the endless boring ceremonies! Living as a royal felt like a slow suffocation. And when they arranged for me to be married, it was the last straw, and I ran.”

“So, you are betrothed?”

“Yes. To a lovely elf named Molly. I like her very much, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Marriage, women…” He shook his head with disgust. “Not my area. I choose to be true to my nature, John, and I couldn’t go through with it.”

“So, you…?”

“I am attracted to men, powerful men, haven’t I been clear on this point?” He cocked his head and smiled an impish smile that made John’s stomach flip.

“You lied then. You do know how to cross the Border Woods. What’s more, your father would pay a ransom for you. Perhaps even give up the stone.”

“I guess we both know how to lie. And now we are even, John Watson. Each of us knows a secret that could hurt the other.”

“It would appear so. Here, I think the water is warm enough.” Using a cloth to protect his hands from the hot metal, John removed the bucket from the coals and set it near the cage before turning to add more wood to the fire. The warm water would quickly cool on the elf’s skin, and he hoped the heat from the blaze would dry him. The fire was soon roaring, its flames as high as John’s waist. Taking a sponge from his knapsack, he motioned for Sherlock to come closer.

“Let me get the blood off your face.”

After wetting the sponge, he dabbed at the elf’s temple, still swollen and purple.

“Does that hurt?”

The elf shook his head.

John swabbed all the bits of crusted blood from his face and hair. He touched the milky skin with his fingertips as many times as he dared, without being obvious about it.

Sherlock stayed silent and still, his eyes closed, during John’s ministrations, and John gazed in wonder at his face; the angle of his jaw, the slant of his eyes, the cupid’s bow. He licked his lip. There was absolutely no denying it. This sweet-smelling elf was gorgeous, and John wanted him. He wanted him in the most carnal sense. In ways that almost made him blush. As he gazed, the elf’s eyes opened slowly and met his.

“Thank you, John.”

Again, his name spoken in that velvety voice, which seemed much too low to come from such a young, delicate form, thrilled John to the very marrow of his bones. He thought he could listen to Sherlock say his name for hours and never tire of it. In his mind, he imagined saying Sherlock’s name, but in an inarticulate animal snarl, as he—

“You are welcome.” John exhaled and stepped back as if distance could extinguish his desire.

Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers, and they fell to the ground. He stepped out of them, then unlaced his undergarments and pushed them down as well before kicking the pile of clothing aside. Now he was completely naked, half in shadow, with the firelight lapping his lithe body with golden tongues. John held his breath and tried not to stare. Failed miserably. The elf cleared his throat. Startled, John looked up into the elf’s twinkling eyes. “Unless you’re going to wash the rest of me, may I have the sponge?” Heat rising in his cheeks, John dipped it into the bucket and handed it, dripping, to the naked elf.

Sherlock squeezed the sponge over his head, and the water ran over his face and hair, making rivulets over his shoulders and chest. Again, and again, John dipped the sponge in the water and handed it through the bars. Again, and again, the elf passed it over his body, washing away the grime and leaving clean wet skin that sparkled in the glow of the fire.

John had meant to turn away and give Sherlock privacy, but he found that he could not, and Sherlock didn’t seem to care. He seemed proud to be showing his body to John. He ran the sponge over his penis, his bollocks, holding them with one hand so he could reach behind with the other. When he turned to let the heat from the fire dry his back, John could not tear his eyes from the round buttocks, so perfect, so ripe, and all he could think about was sliding between them and into the hot tightness there. His trousers were becoming uncomfortably snug as his cock swelled, and, somewhere deep inside him, the Wolf howled.

Sherlock cocked his head and whispered over his shoulder, “I hear him.”

“The moon is nearly full.”

“What will you do when it is?” Sherlock asked as he pulled on his trousers.

“I’ll make some excuse to leave camp. I usually say I’m going hunting. Which isn’t actually a lie.”

The elf approached the bars. “Thank you, John. Thank you for taking this risk for me. I feel so much better now. I can think more clearly now that the filth is gone.”

“Then maybe you’ll come to your senses, cooperate or at least tell Lestrade who you are.”

“No, I won’t. I can’t. Whatever my difficulties with my family, I won’t betray them, or my people.”

“Then you’ll die…and I don’t want that to happen.”

“Nor do I. There are so many things I haven’t done, so many things I haven’t seen or experienced. Remember when I said I wanted to be true to my nature? I haven’t had the chance to do that yet, not properly anyway.”

“So, you’ve never…”

“Never been with a man, no. As a child of the royal family, I was always closely supervised. Protected. Watched. Especially after my father caught me in a wardrobe with the cook’s son. We were only kissing.” Sherlock looked wistful. “My life was almost unbearable after that.”

John stepped closer until they were only a few inches apart and the earthy, sensual smell of the boy, which had not diminished with the bath, washed over him, bringing a rush of desire. “I’m so sorry.” He reached into the cage and took Sherlock’s hands, his sturdy, calloused fingers encircling the elf’s slim ones.

John could feel Sherlock’s breath warm against his face. They stood there, each seemingly afraid to move. They were so close, yet separated by race and war, not to mention iron bars.

“Will you kiss me?” Sherlock breathed. 

John didn’t say a word but lunged forward so quickly that his cheeks hit the bars of the cage, but he felt no pain. He felt nothing but the elf’s lips as they pressed to his. And then his tongue, meeting John’s, seeking, probing. He tasted almost as good as he smelled, and John wanted to taste more of him. It was awkward, with the bars between them, and able to connect only with hands and lips. John thrust his tongue as far as it would go into Sherlock’s mouth. He nipped at his lower lip, he kissed tenderly, then roughly. Sherlock moaned, pressing against the cage.

The Wolf howled again, and John felt the first hot prickles at the back of his neck. He tried to ignore them. He wanted to go on kissing, and more. He had dropped Sherlock’s left hand and now had his palm over the front of the elf’s trousers, and he could feel his erection growing beneath it. The prickles intensified and spread down his spine. The Wolf whined. He had to stop. He had to stop right now before it was too late. _But I don’t want to stop. _The Wolf growled as light flashed behind his closed eyelids.

Gasping, John staggered away from the bars. He held his hands in front of him, turning them over and watching as thick fur sprouted on his knuckles. His heart was pounding, and the prickles had turned to a searing pain, a fire that seemed to course through his veins, reaching every part of him. The world had dissolved into a haze, and it was just him and the Wolf. _ No! No! NO! _John clenched his jaw and directed every bit of strength to resisting. The Wolf snarled, and John screamed back. He was dimly aware of his knees hitting the ground. His head was splitting with pain and the haze around him deepened into utter blackness.

********

“John.”

“John.”

He opened his eyes and saw a dark cloudy sky. He blinked. _ What happened? _ All at once it came rushing back. Kissing the elf, the Wolf. _ Oh shit, the Wolf! _ He sat up quickly and looked around. The fire had died, but the sky to the east was beginning to brighten and provided enough light to see that there was no evidence of destruction. Sherlock stood at the bars of the cage, unharmed, safe. _ Thank god. _

“John,” he repeated. “Are you all right?”

“I, I think so.” He peered at his hands in the dim light. They were human hands, no fur, no claws. “Have I been out all night?”

“Yes, I thought it best to let you sleep, but it’s almost dawn, and the next guard will be here soon.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what.”

“For what almost happened. The Wolf. He tried to get out.”

“I know. I heard him.”

“How can you—"

“I’m a Light-elf. We are attuned to nature. Most of us have gifts, magic you might call it. Communicating with animals is one of my gifts. I heard your wolf. And I saw you stop him.” 

“Yeah.” John laughed without humour. This time. I would have killed you. **He** would have killed you. I’m sorry for risking that. It was selfish of me.”

“Does that always happen? When you’re…aroused?”

“No. That was a first, but I felt the signs and kept going anyway. I didn’t want to stop.”

“Nor did I.”

“We can’t do it again.”

Sherlock frowned.

“It’s too dangerous,” John said.

“I told you, I can help you control him.”

“And I told you, your theory is rubbish.”

“I could talk to him. Remember the wolf in the clearing when you captured me? Sitting there in the grass next to rabbits and deer. That was my doing.”

“No.”

“Don’t you want me?”

John drew in a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course, I want you. I think I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you. And, it’s more than that. Now that I’ve gotten to know you…it’s…” He couldn’t find the words to express exactly how he felt, “… just more. I won’t put you in danger.”

“Look at me, John, I’m already in danger,” Sherlock said, gesturing at the cage. “I’m a captive of your army, awaiting this General Moriarty, whom everyone seems to fear, who’s going to interrogate me and perhaps kill me if I don’t—"

Approaching footsteps interrupted their conversation, and Sherlock quickly pulled the blanket from his shoulders and tossed it through the bars before heading to the far side of the cage and lying down, pretending to be asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

It was early afternoon when John emerged from his tent, his jaw set with resolve. After returning from watch this morning he had lain awake, turning over the events of last night in his head and arguing with himself. On the one hand, the military had been his whole life for the previous thirteen years. It had been his family and he was proud to be a soldier, and damn good at it too. 

On the other hand, there was Sherlock. A boy_, _ a ** man**, whom he’d known for less than a week, but who might be worth risking absolutely everything for.

Before falling asleep, he had decided that he would break into Lestrade’s quarters after nightfall and steal the key. Then, during his watch, he would set Sherlock free. Perhaps he could replace the key before dawn and blame the elf’s magic for the escape or perhaps his treachery would be discovered and that would be the end of his career, and likely his life. Or maybe he’d just run, taking Sherlock with him. He hadn’t worked through all the details yet.

The ordinarily raucous camp was curiously quiet. On a typical day with no drills or exercises scheduled, men would be letting off steam by wrestling or sparring. At the very least, John expected to hear insults and laughter. As he approached the centre of camp, he saw men conversing quietly in small groups or seated on logs, finishing their midday meal. No shouting, no joking, no singing. _ What is going on? _

Stamford was nearby with a few other men, and John joined them.

“What’s going on, I’ve just woken up.”

Stamford licked gravy from his stubby fingers and said, “It’s Moriarty. He arrived this morning with his entourage. It’s got everyone on their best behaviour.”

John’s stomach dropped. “Moriarty? I thought he wasn’t expected for at least another day.”

Stamford shrugged and hooked a thumb toward Lestrade’s tent. “Dunno how he made it so fast, but he’s in there.”

_ Shit, Shit, Shit! _The general’s early arrival ruined John’s plans for Sherlock’s escape.

Suddenly, he had no appetite. The hunger in his belly had been replaced by a sick dread. Moriarty would likely interrogate Sherlock today. His mind raced, trying to see a way out of this predicament, but before he could work anything out, he heard Lestrade’s booming voice.

“Men! I want everybody lined up in front of my quarters in five minutes!”

“Looks like we're going to meet him,” the soldier next to Stamford said eagerly.

“Great,” John answered, forcing a smile.

Five minutes later, the men were standing at attention in front of Lestrade’s tent. Twenty minutes later, they were still standing there. Apparently, the General was going to make them wait. Some of the men were shifting restlessly. Others were muttering. John stood stock still, trying to keep his breathing even. The longer they stood there, the longer Sherlock would remain unharmed._ I’ll gladly stand here all fucking day. _

Finally, the tent flap opened, and Lestrade stepped out and stood aside. A moment later, the flap opened again, and General James Moriarty emerged. John wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Some giant, stern-looking fellow perhaps, but nothing like the man who stood before them. He was slight and youthful looking. Taller than John but not a giant by any means. His uniform was crisp and spotless, his boots shone. He had dark hair and even darker eyes. His face was handsome save for a scar that slashed through his upper lip and halfway across his cheek, giving him a kind of permanent sneer. He had an arrogant confidence about him, a presence. He commanded respect without having said a single word.

He carried a long riding crop which he tapped absently against his boot as he surveyed the line of soldiers.

“Lieutenant, this is a fine group of men you have here,” he said in a voice that was somewhat higher than John would have expected, lilting and musical with just a tinge of what John could only describe as _ controlled lunacy. _

“Gentlemen, he began. I have travelled here because we are on the cusp of a breakthrough in our quest to conquer the elves. As I’m sure you know, the King desires to control the Aelfstone and so control nature. We could eliminate famine. Imagine! All the animals of the woods coming docilely to slaughter. The fish in the river jumping into our nets at our command. The lushness of the flora of Aelveden spreading to our own shrivelled fields. The elves have long hoarded this power and refused to share. And now, their days are numbered. Now that we have a captive of their race to guide us through the Border Woods, their main defence, we have a chance to defeat them. We _ will _ defeat them. I will accept no less.” Moriarty raised his arms and bellowed at the assembly. “God save the King!” 

“God save the King!” shouted the men in unison.

“Lieutenant.” Moriarty turned to Lestrade. “Introduce me to the men responsible for the capture.”

“Watson! Stamford! Anderson! Step forward.” Lestrade ordered.

John took a step forward along with the other two. John was at the end of the line and waited grimly as Moriarty congratulated Stamford and Anderson. When he got to John, he extended his hand. “Congratulations Corporal. Well done. The realm—” The General stopped abruptly. At the same time, John barely suppressed a gasp as he registered the scent. They stared at one another, eyes locked, hands clasped. _ Wolf! He’s a werewolf! _ Moriarty’s dark eyes, tinged with a hint of yellow, narrowed and his scarred lip curled up in a half-smile. _ “We meet again. Only now, you are my brother.” _These words, unspoken but crystal clear, made John’s blood run cold. “…is in your debt,” continued Moriarty out loud, giving John a wink and releasing his hand. 

John’s mind was reeling. He felt dizzy. So much was happening. Sherlock, Moriarty. The discovery that Moriarty was a also a werewolf. “_We meet again? _ ” John’s overloaded brain tried to process the information he’d just be given. _ Three years ago. Could it have been him? _ He remembered burying his knife in the attacking werewolf’s muzzle...Moriarty’s scar. It all fit. He seethed with anger at the thought that this man might be the one responsible for making him a monster. But that wasn’t fair now, was it? When the Wolf was in control, John did terrible, awful things. It would be the same with Moriarty. It would be wrong to blame him. But he couldn’t help it.

********

Moriarty spoke to the assembled men for several more minutes. But the words were just a distant rumble that didn’t register. After the initial shock of the discovery, John turned his attention back to how he was going to rescue Sherlock. Now that Moriarty was in camp, his original plan, of slipping into Lestrade’s tent after he was asleep and taking the keys, was useless. And during the day, he’d have them on his belt. _ Fuck! _

“…if we are victorious, each one of you will get twenty gold coins, and thirty to Watson, Anderson and Stamford!” John was jolted out of his thoughts by the mention of his name and the men cheering at the prospect of this generous reward. “In the meantime, you all get an extra pint of ale with dinner,” Moriarty continued. More cheering ensued.

“Dismissed!” Lestrade said.

“What’s wrong, mate? Stamford asked as the men dispersed. “You don’t seem very chuffed about the reward.”

“It’s not that. I just…I’m not feeling well, I think I’m going to lie down.”

“Sorry to hear it. Can I ‘ave your ale then?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

********

Instead of going to his tent, John walked to where the horses were tied. Aelfwyn tossed his head and pawed the ground nervously as he approached, so he halted some distance way. He wasn’t sure why he had come here. He couldn’t go to Sherlock so maybe this was the next best thing. Visiting his horse.

“Whoa boy.”

Aelfwyn snorted.

“You _ are _ a beauty, just like your master. I’m going to do whatever I can to help him. I just want you to know that.” _ What the fuck am I doing? I’m talking to a horse! _John huffed a little laugh as he sat down on a boulder.

“Except I don’t know what to do.” Hot tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. “Jesus, I think that if I knew how to change, to bring out the beast, I’d do it just to turn attention to me and away from him, but even if I could, how many men would I kill in the process if I can’t control him, just to buy Sherlock time? And why do I even care so much?”

The white horse nickered. No longer restless and pulling on his rope, but looking at John almost thoughtfully, his large brown eyes bright.

“He’s special, isn’t he?” John remembered how calm and unafraid Sherlock had been in the face of so much danger. His keen intelligence. Then there was his velvety voice, his smooth white skin, and the taste of his lips. _ And oh my god, that smell _. It might be the smell most of all that made John want to possess him. If he could bury his nose in his neck and lose himself in that aroma every day… John had been thinking about the smell, sometimes butterscotchy, sometimes earthy, and decided that no matter its variation – it always evoked one thought. Sex.

“It’s not just that I want to lie with him,” he told the horse, and immediately felt embarrassed, even though the animal surely couldn’t understand him. “I mean I do, it’s practically all I think about, but I want to protect him.” He dropped his head into his hands. “They are going to hurt him, Aelfwyn and I’m so, so sorry.” Then he looked up, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “What are we going to do, my friend?”

Before John could continue this one-sided conversation, he heard shouting and jeering from the direction of the camp. _ Oh, god. No! Not so soon. _He jumped to his feet and bolted toward the ruckus as fast as he would go, leaping over obstacles and oblivious to the thorns that tore at his arms and the slash of branches against his face as he raced through the woods. Legs shaking and lungs burning, he burst from the trees and into the cleared area that housed the tents. There was a wall of bodies blocking his view of whatever was going on. He pushed past them, and his heart dropped as he took in the scene.

General Moriarty stood in the centre of the circle of men, hands clasped behind his back, still holding the crop. At his feet, on his knees, was Sherlock. His hands were tied behind his back, and a rope had been knotted around his neck. His body, which had been so clean and white just hours ago, was now covered with dirt, although John could see no new injuries or bruises. But unless Sherlock gave Moriarty what he wanted, that would surely change. The elf looked straight ahead; his features expressionless.

Moriarty walked casually around the prisoner.

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here. This is our lucky day! Such a fine specimen of one of the so-called fair folk. Not feeling very fair right now, are you?” Moriarty grinned, flashing gleaming white teeth.

“What we need from you is really very simple. And if you give it to us, you might live to see another day – because, well, that’s the kind of man I am. We need you to lead us unharmed through the Border Woods. Easy peasy, right? Just use your elf magic to neutralise all the nasty traps and spells. Lead us to Aelveden, and you can go back to playing music or frolicking or whatever it is you do.” Moriarty made a fluttering gesture with his hand.

Sherlock said nothing,

Still smiling, Moriarty bent down and placed the tip of the crop under Sherlock’s chin and raised it so that Sherlock was looking up into his face. “So, will you make the smart decision elfling?”

Sherlock remained silent.

“Tsk, tsk. Daddy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

_ Please, Sherlock, say yes_. John was desperately concentrating on sending this thought to Sherlock. He closed his eyes.

_ “Say yes. Say yes. Say yes. Say—” _

“_I can’t,_” came the response, so faint that at first, John thought he imagined it. He opened his eyes.

“_I'm sorry._” The whispered words floated into his head as he watched the elf spit in the general’s face. 

There was a collective gasp, followed by absolute silence as one hundred men held their breath. John’s preternaturally keen senses could hear one man’s rapid shallow breathing and he realised that it was Sherlock. _ He’s afraid. _

General Moriarty stood slowly and wiped his face.

“Wrong decision.” The crop made a whistling sound as it travelled through the air and a loud crack as it struck the side of Sherlock’s face, and he fell to the ground with a grunt. Moriarty knelt beside him and, grasping a handful of hair, jerked his head up so that the elf’s ear was near his mouth. He spoke low, intending no one else to hear. And no one did except for John.

“I like my prisoners with a little fight in them. I’d have been disappointed if you’d given up so easily. It would have been boring. And I’m really going to enjoy what’s about to happen. But don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you, not yet. I intended to before I saw you, but I had no idea you’d be so handsome, and smell so… delectable. I think I’m going to pay you a visit later and find out if that pretty elf-arse is as tight as it looks.”

John could feel the heat of anger rise up his neck. He was trying desperately to remain outwardly calm, but he could feel his eye twitching and was sure that his pounding heart was audible to the men around him. The thought of this cocky, cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch violating **his** Sherlock was almost more than he could bear. 

“One more chance, because I’m nii-eeece,” Moriarty said, now speaking loud enough for all to hear.

Sherlock shook his head.

Moriarty let go of his hair and stood up. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Turning to a group of soldiers to his left, he pointed. “You. And you. Tie the prisoner to that tree.” Taking a coiled whip from one of his assistants, he turned and scanned the circle of men until his eyes alighted on Anderson. “Anderson, will you do the honours?”

Anderson squared his shoulders and said, “Yes, Sir!” as he held out his hand for the whip.

The two soldiers, Wendersham and a fellow whose name John didn’t know, pulled Sherlock to his feet and led him to a tall, thick tree that stood nearby. The crowd was becoming unruly with the anticipation of the spectacle, and some had begun to jeer and hurl insults. Others started making bets on the outcome.

“One silver piece says he gives in before ten lashes.”

“Two silver pieces says he cries after three.”

“I’ll take that bet…”

John stood helpless as he watched them tug off the elf’s trousers and push him naked, face-first against the tree. His hands were pulled together on the other side and tied, then fastened to an overhead branch so that he wouldn’t slide down the trunk.

Anderson uncoiled the whip and gave it an experimental crack in the air. He turned to Moriarty. “How many, Sir?” 

“Oh, just keep going until I say stop.”

_ “John. I’m frightened.” _

Anderson drew back and brought the lash down. It whistled through the air and connected with Sherlock’s back with a sharp crack leaving a bright red stripe. Sherlock gasped but didn’t cry out. John tried to answer, tried to think of something that would comfort the elf, but he sensed that their line of communication had been cut. As if all of Sherlock’s mental powers were being used to cope with the pain.

The whip fell again and again. Across his back, his shoulders, his buttocks and thighs. At first, he had been quiet, but now he screamed as each blow landed. Each cry of anguish ripped through John like a red-hot knife. He had to stop this. He absolutely could not take one more minute of watching this innocent creature tormented. At the next stroke, Sherlock didn’t scream, but his torn body sagged limply against the tree, held up only by the rope as his legs gave way.

John lunged forward, breaking out of the crowd. “Stop it! Just. Stop it!”

Anderson lowered the whip, looking at John in surprise, then at Moriarty.

“He’s just a boy!” John said.

Anderson raised the whip, still looking at Moriarty. Moriarty held up a hand, and he dropped it again.

“Corporal Watson. I don’t care if he’s seventeen or two hundred and seven. He has information that is crucial to our mission. It is my job to obtain that information.”

“Look at him,” John implored. “He’s unconscious. He’s not going to give you anything like that. Ask him again tomorrow. Maybe this will have changed his mind.”

“You have a point,” the General said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Cut him down.”

Relief washed over John, and he turned toward Sherlock. “Not you,” Moriarty said, stopping John in his tracks. “I want you to stay away from him. You’ve been guarding him, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Possibly been getting a little too familiar? Going a little soft?”

“No, Sir.”

Moriarty turned to Lestrade. “Watson is not to take any more guard shifts. In fact, my men will keep guard tonight.” 

“As you wish, General.”

John’s heart sank. With Moriarty’s men guarding Sherlock, how would he get him out, even if he could manage to nick the key? And with Moriarty’s men as guards, it would make it that much easier for the General to molest the elf if that hadn’t just been an empty threat meant to intimidate him. 

_ Fuck! _ What were his options? He could protect his career by doing nothing. In which case, Sherlock would most likely be raped, tortured, and ultimately killed. Or he could do the one thing that might possibly save Sherlock, but then again might destroy him. The thing that would most certainly end his own career and maybe his own life as well. It would be dangerous. He wasn’t sure he could do it. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to control the Wolf, but he knew without a doubt that he was going to try. He **had** to try. He watched in helpless rage as Sherlock’s limp, bloodied form was dragged off. When he was out of sight, John turned and strode seething to his tent to wait for nightfall, six long hours away.


	8. Chapter 8

Feigning illness, John managed to stay in his tent all afternoon. Stamford, ever helpful, had brought his dinner. John was grateful for this._ I’m going to miss that bloke, _and he ate as much as he could, although he had no appetite. The Wolf **always** had an appetite and he hoped that if he over-filled his belly now, it would take the edge off and make him easier to placate. 

After he had eaten, he poked his head out and looked around. There was no one in sight. The soft orange glow of the campfire and the sounds of singing told him that the men were gathering for an evening of camaraderie. No doubt enjoying their extra pint of ale and recounting the excitement of the day. Which was, of course, the arrival of Moriarty and the flogging of the elf.

He picked up his knapsack, filled to bursting with all the belongings he could stuff into it. Stealthily, he crept behind the row of tents and disappeared into the woods, headed to where the horses were tied.

They whickered softly as he approached. It would be so much easier if he could take one. He could get away much faster on horseback than on foot, but it was impossible. In a changed state, there was no way he could ride, and the most likely outcome would be the horse being ripped to shreds. It would have to be on foot then, but first, he would let Aelfwyn go. 

Holding a bit of clover in his outstretched hand, he walked slowly toward the white horse. The animal stood motionless but for his nostrils, which flared as he took in John’s scent. When he was a metre away, he stopped, still offering the treat. Tentatively, Aelfwyn stretched his neck and his soft muzzle fluttered over John’s palm, taking the clover. With his other hand, John reached for the rope that circled his neck and quickly untied it.

“There you go, my friend, you are free. If all goes well, your master will also be free. And if it doesn’t… John paused and placed his hand on the horse’s neck, stroking the soft coat, “…if it doesn’t, I am truly sorry, for we will have both lost something dear to us. Now go.” He withdrew his hand and stepped back. Aelfwyn didn’t move. “Go!” John repeated, more loudly, raising his arms in a shooing motion. This time the horse flung his head, and feeling no rope holding him, wheeled on his haunches and galloped away into the darkness.

********

The moon was rising as John waited in the gloom, hidden by brush and trees, downwind of the cage. He could just detect Sherlock’s scent. Based on his reaction to it last night, he was counting on it to help him shift. It had to be done soon. He assessed that there were two men guarding Sherlock, judging by the stench of unwashed bodies. Thankfully, he could not yet detect Moriarty; this thing had to be done before the General made his threatened visit. He could take on two guards easily, but not two guards and another werewolf.

He’d never willingly shifted before. The experience of being free from human form and limitations, and especially human conscience, was thrilling in the moment, like cliff-diving, flying through the air with heart pumping and adrenaline flowing. But coming back was like crashing belly first onto the waves, the overwhelming guilt like a lungful of saltwater threatening to drown him. 

He undressed, _ No sense ruining my clothes_, then closed his eyes. _ Concentrate. _ He took another deep breath, inhaling the butterscotch scent to entice the Wolf. Grimacing, he replayed the flogging in his mind: Sherlock’s pale eyes, calm and defiant before he was reduced to sobbing screams; the whip whistling through the air; the sickening sound it made as it hit **his** elf. The tender white flesh flayed and bloodied; Anderson’s eager smirk. 

John flinched at the first prickles on the back of his neck.

_ Come, Wolf. _

The Wolf answered with a low growl.

John pictured Moriarty, gripping Sherlock’s hair. “_ I think I’m going to pay you a visit later and find out if that pretty elf-arse is as tight as it looks.” _ He pictured Moriarty’s cruel yellow-tinged eyes and scarred lip, his arrogant swagger. The bastard ** wanted ** Sherlock to suffer. He ** enjoyed ** it.

_ I hate him. _

The prickles intensified. He was sweating profusely and the cool night breeze, which should have chilled him, had no effect. He was burning up. Just then, the thick clouds parted, and moonlight washed over him, sending shudders throughout his body. He fell to his knees.

Holding his hands in front of him, he watched in horrified fascination as the brown fur grew and his fingernails erupted into vicious claws.

_ Come. I welcome you._

_ Let’s see if your theory is rubbish, Sherlock. _

These were the last coherent thoughts John-the-man had before the deafening snarls tore through his brain, and his pain-wracked body fell convulsing to the ground.

********

The Wolf that had been John Watson and was still a bit John Watson, a ** lot** John Watson, actually, opened his yellow eyes. He sat on its haunches, moonlight glinting on his grey-brown fur as saliva dripped from its lolling tongue. Slowly, he rose to stand on his hind legs, lifted his pointed snout, sniffed the air, and, finding what he was seeking, howled. 

_KILL! _raged the Wolf. And for once, John didn’t argue with him. Instead, he let go and became one with him. Together they howled again and ran snarling toward their prey.

*********

The men standing guard never stood a chance. The Wolf sprang from the trees in a high arcing leap, landing squarely on the back of the first one. His huge jaws gripped the man’s neck and John tasted the blood and heard the crack of bone as it was broken. It felt good, so good, to bite and kill. The other man, while taken by surprise, was able to draw his knife before John was on him, but he was no match for the great beast. They rolled on the ground and the still night was pierced by shrieks and growls before the shrieks were silenced when John ripped out the man’s throat. Then there were only growls. 

Panting, John turned away from the dead man, his long pink tongue licking the blood from his chin and savouring the coppery tang of it. He advanced toward the cage, where Sherlock lay on his stomach, eyes barely open.

_ “Hurry, John,” _came the elf’s silent plea.

John lunged at the bars and bit at them. His strong jaws found purchase, and he twisted his head. The sinewy muscles of his neck strained as he whined and pulled and scrabbled. There was a sound of metal scraping metal as the bar came loose. He had to hurry, the cries of the now dead man had surely roused the sleeping soldiers, and they would soon have company. He jerked his massive head, and the bar detached, sending him tumbling backwards.

“Woof!” he barked at Sherlock, forgetting momentarily that he couldn’t speak.

_ “Can you move?” _ He said again, telepathically. There was no way he could fit through the opening he’d made and not enough time to enlarge it.

Sherlock answered by crawling toward the opening, his face contorting in pain with each movement.

John sat with his back against the space where the iron bar had been and soon felt the elf’s arms around his neck. As gently as he could, he pulled forward until Sherlock’s slim body slid from the cage, just as he heard the sounds of footsteps and shouting.

The Wolf that was also John Watson dropped to all fours, and with the elf clinging to his back, loped away into the forest.


	9. Chapter 9

His lungs burned, and his jaw was sore from breaking the iron bar and then carrying the knapsack for miles. The sky had cleared, and the moon was high and bright, illuminating the landscape. With the moon so close to full and feeling himself so close to exhaustion, John knew it was useless to even try to shift back before dawn. He found a sheltered spot under an outcropping of rock and dropped the pack. He lay down on his belly and let Sherlock climb off.

_ “What do you need?” _

“Water,” Sherlock croaked out loud.

John used his snout to push the pack within his reach. Sherlock opened it and drew out the canteen. He unplugged the stopper and tipped it, gulping down the water. As his hair fell away from his face, John saw the swollen cheek, an angry red stripe crossing it where the crop had landed, and a growl rumbled deep in his chest. After Sherlock drained the canteen, he dropped his head back onto his arm and closed his eyes.

John inched closer and touched the tip of his nose to the elf’s forehead. He was burning with fever. Instinctively, his tongue flicked out and lapped the welt on his cheek. Sherlock flinched, and John pulled away.

_ “More,” _Sherlock said inside John’s head.

“_More water? _”

_ “No. More tongue. Saliva. Yours. It will help.” _

Maybe the elf was delirious. Or perhaps he knew something. John crept forward again and dragged his long tongue over the welt. Sherlock moaned outwardly but said “_Yes. Good_,” telepathically. John licked again, and again. Then, rising to all fours, he looked at the bloody slashes that crisscrossed Sherlock’s back, buttocks and the tops of his thighs. 

“_Please. _”

And so, John licked. He licked each raw stripe. Each rope burn. He licked again and again. He traced the marks of the whip with as much gentleness as he could muster while Sherlock groaned beneath him. Out of pain or relief, he wasn’t sure. When his tongue ran over the elf’s buttocks, the wolfen part of him, the wild part which was drawn by the scent of the elf’s skin, stirred. _Not now._ The beast whined softly, then quieted, and John was again both in control and at one with him.

When every welt, every abrasion, and every open wound was thoroughly licked and saturated with saliva, John lay down beside Sherlock and rested his head on his paws.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, opening his eyes to look at John before closing them again.

Only when the elf’s even breathing told John he had gone to sleep did he allow himself to drift off. 


	10. Chapter 10

John opened his eyes and squinted against the brightness. He could hear birds chirping, and in the distance, the soft rush of water. His head hurt; his arm hurt; everything hurt. Had he had another dream? He remembered blood and biting and running. In a split-second, it all came back. The Wolf, the guards, Sherlock. _ Sherlock! _

Shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, he took in his surroundings. The elf lay beside him, and the gentle rise and fall of his back told him that he was alive. John held up his own hand and examined it. It was just a hand, a human hand. He must have shifted back with the dawn without waking.

He looked at the sleeping form beside him. Sherlock still lay on his stomach, sparing his injured back. But miraculously, the raw, bloody stripes had healed to dark welts. And when John brushed the curls from Sherlock’s cheek, there was only a faint purple stripe there, bordered with pale yellow. He touched the elf’s forehead, and the skin was cool, not feverish.

John reached for the knapsack and pulled out the blanket he’d packed. Without his fur, he was shivering in the morning air, and Sherlock must be cold as well. He pulled the blanket over them and lay back down beside the elf. They were both naked, and the closeness was thrilling. He settled down with his face just inches from Sherlock’s and watched him sleep. A single lock of black hair fell across his face. His eyes were framed by equally black lashes, impossibly long. His full lips were slightly parted, and he made a little snuffling sound with each breath, not quite a snore, and John found it absolutely charming. Not able to stop himself, he stretched out a finger and traced the lush bottom lip, remembering their kiss just two nights ago. It now seemed a lifetime away. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled.

“Good morning, John.”

“Good morning,” John said, his finger still resting on Sherlock’s bottom lip. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore and hungry, but infinitely better than yesterday.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You saved me.”

“Sorry that I couldn’t stop Moria—”

“No, John, don’t do that to yourself. It’s not your fault. I chose it, remember? I could have given him what he wanted.”

“You were very brave.”

The elf laughed. “Or very foolish.”

“Whichever one it was, I’m glad you’re safe. Do you think you can sit up?”

“I can try.”

John helped Sherlock to a sitting position, but the bare ground proved too painful for his tender bum. John folded the blanket for him to sit on, trying and failing to keep his eyes averted from the elf’s penis, which was a dusky shade of pink, soft, and nestled in dark pubic hair. 

Looking up, he saw Sherlock staring at him, or rather his groin, mouth open and eyes wide with astonishment, making him keenly aware of his own nakedness, but also just a bit proud, and he dug quickly in the pack for his clothing. “I’m afraid I’ve only got one pair of trousers and no drawers, but I’m sure we can find something for you. Until you’re healed, you probably wouldn’t want them anyway.”

“You’re hurt.” 

“What?”

“Your arm.”

John looked down at his left arm. There was a gash in the biceps. “One of the guards drew a knife. He must have slashed me before…” John trailed off. “Before I killed him. I’d like to forget that bit.”

“But you were magnificent, John. So strong and fierce. What you did for me, risking everything. I don’t know how I’ll be able to repay you.”

John blushed at the compliment. He did have an idea of how he would like to be repaid. With Sherlock’s company, and if he was willing, with his body. But he said none of this. Instead, as he was pulling on his trousers, he said, “I set your horse loose.”

Sherlock’s face lit up at this news. “I’ll call him!”

“You can communicate with him? With your mind?”

“Yes, but only if he’s near. But I can call him with this.” Sherlock tapped the pendant that hung around his neck. “Like this.” Bringing it to his lips, he blew into it. The sound was low, so low that it was barely audible.”

“And he’ll come?”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m going to refill the canteen. There’s water nearby, I can hear it.”

John followed the sound of rushing water until he came to the edge of a wide brook. The brook was fed by a waterfall streaming from an outcropping of rock about fifteen metres high into a large pool below it. _ Perfect. _

As John knelt beside the pool to fill the canteen, he saw his reflection in the water. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself a split second before he actually **saw ** himself. He was expecting a ruggedly handsome square-jawed man with blonde hair and a short beard, but he gasped when he saw a **monster**_. _ His hair was sticking up and everywhere that wasn’t caked with dirt was caked with blood. His cheeks were smeared with it, and his beard was stiff and dark with it. Streaks of it crisscrossed his neck and chest. _ Oh god. _ It was the blood of Moriarty’s men. John closed his eyes and remembered the taste of the warm gush that had erupted from his victim’s torn throat. _ Oh god. _ And just minutes ago he had been tempted to kiss Sherlock as they lay face to face under the blanket. Now he was glad he hadn’t tried. The elf would surely have been repulsed. He dunked his head in the cold water and splashed it over his face and chest, scrubbing with his hands until his reflection was blood-free before filling the canteen and returning to Sherlock.

“You look…better,” Sherlock observed.

“Why didn’t you tell me I looked like a bloody disaster?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t mind.”

“Hey, my shirt!”

Sherlock had taken John’s shirt and ripped off the sleeves, then tied it like a loincloth around his waist with some string he must have found in the knapsack. “I saw you looking at me, I needed to protect myself,” he teased. “Come here, let me see that arm.”

John sat down and let Sherlock dab at the gash with a detached sleeve dipped in water. “I’m sorry I don’t have magic spit like yours, but this can’t hurt,” he said and pressed his lips to the wound in a gentle kiss before fashioning a bandage from the sleeve, and his fingers lingered on John’s skin a bit more than was necessary. 

The gesture took John by surprise. He knew the elf had been receptive, eager even, during the time John was guarding him. But that could have been a ploy to entice John to rescue him. And if it was, it had worked splendidly. But the boy’s touch seemed sincere. John turned his head to look at the elf, who looked back at him with his kaleidoscope eyes. They both moved at the same moment and then they were kissing. It wasn’t the urgent, hungry kiss they’d shared two nights ago through iron bars. It was more tentative, sweeter. The elf’s mouth was warm and soft, and his long hair tickled John’s shoulder. And when John slipped the tip of his tongue between his lips, he moaned. This kiss, the closeness of Sherlock and the promise of where things might ultimately lead made everything that had transpired worthwhile, the things he had done and what he had lost. He found the elf’s hand and squeezed. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered back.

Sherlock was injured, and John didn’t want to let things get out of control, no matter how willing he was. Breaking the kiss but keeping his hand, he said. “You said you were hungry, let’s get you fed.” John rummaged in the knapsack one-handed and pulled out a paper-wrapped package, handing it to Sherlock. “Bread. Probably a bit stale but I also have this,” he rummaged some more, then proudly held up a bottle, “Olive oil, nicked from the cook. Only the best for my elf.” _ My elf. _

As they ate, John asked. “Do I actually have magic spit?”

“Some would call it magic because it has effects that can’t be readily explained. I don’t call it magic; I call it chemistry that no one has figured out yet.”

“How did you know?”

“I know lots of things, I read, I listen, and I remember absolutely everything. I’ve heard that lycanthropes and certain other shapeshifters have healing powers, primarily in their saliva. I felt it when you licked my face. Lucky for me, the legend appears to be true.”

John reached out and touched the fading mark on Sherlock’s cheek. “Amazing.”

********

John spent the rest of the day hunting and exploring, leaving Sherlock to rest and heal. When he returned, just before dusk, Sherlock was sleeping and, standing over him protectively, was the white horse. He nickered softly as John approached.

“Well, hello there, you found us!” John said, and the horse tossed his head.

John skinned the squirrels he’d killed and built a fire. When they were cooked, he bent over Sherlock and kissed his forehead. “Wake up, I’ve made dinner, and you have a visitor.”

Sherlock’s face split in a huge grin when he saw his horse. “Aelfwyn!” He sprang to his feet and threw his arms around the animal’s neck, burying his face in the long mane. John smiled to see Sherlock so joyful. He was also happy to see that the welts had faded further and were now just pink stripes on his back and arse. _ His arse. _ John bit his lip as he gazed at the elf’s lithe form. Wearing the makeshift loincloth exposed his entire posterior to John’s view. _ Mmm, nice. _

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and blushed when he saw John looking at him. “He says thank you.”

“You can tell him it was my pleasure,” John said.

“He can carry the two of us to… to wherever it is we are going to go.”

“We really need to talk about that. Where we are going to go. What will happen next.”

“Tomorrow. I’m happy right now. Let’s not spoil it,” Sherlock said, scratching Aelfwyn’s ears.

“Fair enough, tomorrow then.” 

********

When they were under the blanket that night, Sherlock settled on his side and nestled his head against John’s shoulder with his arm flung across his chest, while John’s played absently with his hair. His closeness was seductive, but John was determined to wait until he was well before they took their physical relationship further.

“Kiss me goodnight, John.”

John responded with a chaste kiss.

“What’s wrong?”

“**I'm** wrong, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? How much I want you? Do you see that?” John pointed to the almost full moon. “You are weak right now, and I’m at my most dangerous. God help me, you do something to me. You’re like a dog whistle for the thing that lives in here,” he said, tapping his chest. “I don’t want to hurt you. And if we were to start something now, I don’t know if I could stop.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, John.”

“I’m not taking that risk.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“We’ll see. Go to sleep.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Let’s go swimming!”

“Hmph, what?” John stretched and yawned.

“It’s a beautiful day, and I need a bath!” Sherlock was tugging at John’s beard.

“Ow, stop it!”

“Last one in is an ugly troll!” Sherlock teased, already walking toward the stream and tossing the loincloth over his shoulder. Rubbing his eyes, John followed the naked elf, stopping on the way to urinate.

When he arrived at the pool, Sherlock was already in the water. John eyed it warily. “Looks cold.”

“It feels glorious,” Sherlock said, splashing.

“You elves and your cleanliness,” John grumbled as he dipped in his toe.

“Take off your trousers, John.”

“Oh. I see. This is all just a ploy to get me naked.”

Sherlock laughed and dived under the water.

John unfastened his trousers and kicked them off. Holding his breath, he jumped in.

The water was shockingly cold. So cold that his testicles retracted into his body and goosebumps erupted all over. Breaking the surface, he shouted. “Jesus, fuck!”

Sherlock swam up behind him and wrapped his arms around John’s neck.

“You’ll get used to it.”

Sherlock was like an octopus. It seemed like he had more than just two arms and legs as he wrapped them around John. He bit his ear playfully and worked his way around so that they were face to face. They kissed. They laughed. They chased each other around the pool. John couldn’t remember when he’d felt this light, this happy. Surely not since he was a child. Finally, exhausted, they pulled themselves from the water and into the grass to dry. The day was unseasonably warm, and the sun shone brightly upon them as they lay side by side, holding hands.

Then Sherlock rolled over, seeking John’s lips, and John pulled the elf on top of him. There was no more caution, no tentativeness. Here, under the blazing sun, it was safe, safe to reveal all of the passion and want that John felt. As he thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands caressed his back, lined with marks that while healed, would never completely fade. They would always be a reminder of their ordeal and the conflict between elf and man. He kissed and nipped the long white neck and sucked a bruise on his collarbone, a claim. He grasped the elf’s buttocks and pulled him closer, feeling his thickening cock slide against his own as Sherlock moaned in his ear.

“Oh, John!_"_

John rolled his hips and Sherlock responded in kind. They rocked together, their heavy breathing and the occasional twittering of birds the only sounds in the still morning.

“Sit up,” John ordered.

“Yes, Sir!” Sherlock sat up, straddling John’s hips and John spat in his palm. “I want to watch you,” he said and then took them both in hand. 

Sherlock licked his own palm seductively, and John swore an oath. And when the elf wrapped his large hand around them, joining John’s, every inch of cock was covered.

As they stroked in unison, John looked up at his lover, writhing above him in the sunshine with eyes half-closed in ecstasy and dark tresses falling over his shoulders, and thought again that he was the most beautiful, exotic thing he had ever seen. _“Mine!”_ It was the voice of the Wolf, faint but insistent and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered. “_Yesss, yours” _came his telepathic response. 

Sherlock’s thighs began to tremble, and a flush spread over the pale skin of his chest. His grip tightened, and John groaned. “Come for me, gorgeous. Come for me.” He was torn between watching the elf’s face as he climaxed and the stream of white pulsing from the tip of his cock peeking out from John’s fist, and he looked back and forth between the two. The sight, coupled with the sensation of warm wetness as the ropes of semen fell on his bare chest and ran over his fingers, pushed John over the edge and he bucked his hips, almost throwing the elf off. His shout startled roosting birds and the sound of their flapping wings joined his voice as it echoed off the nearby cliffs.

Sherlock collapsed forward, burying his face in John’s neck, chest heaving, and John wrapped his arms tightly around him.

“So good,” murmured Sherlock. 

“Mmm. Yes, it was.”

“Can we do it again?”

John chortled. “What? Now? Is this some elven super-power that I need to know about?”

Sherlock raised his head and grinned. “No. No super-power. I just…being with you like this…I want more.”

“That can be arranged.”

John pushed the hair back from Sherlock’s face and traced a pointed ear with his fingertips. “I find your ears very sexy.” He touched the dull greenish stone halfway between earlobe and tip. It didn’t look like any precious stone he was familiar with, it looked…ordinary. “What is this?”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean? You know **my** deepest, darkest secrets. Don’t you trust me?”

Sherlock sighed. “I trust you. I trust you with my life. So, I’ll tell you, but you must promise—"

“I promise, Sherlock.”

“It’s the Aelfstone.”

John sat up so fast that Sherlock tumbled off.

“What! You mean you had it all along?”

“Well, technically it’s just a very tiny piece of the Aelfstone. You see, it’s true, the stone really is the source of our powers; ‘magic’ if you prefer. Generations ago, our king, my great-great-grandfather, thought it best to diffuse the power, both as a way of protecting it and also of cementing the power and influence of the royal family. He had tiny pieces chipped off and fashioned into earrings. Each member of the royal family wears one. When I’m older, it will make me quite powerful. Without it, I’m just an ordinary elf. It also has extraordinary healing qualities.”

“Why didn’t you use it then?” 

“What? To heal myself? I couldn’t risk having it discovered, and when you used your ‘magic spit’, I didn’t need to.”

“Would it be so bad for your people to share? It could end the war; it would have saved you so much pain.”

“John, you don’t understand. The Aelfstone is the source of ** elven** magic. Men can’t use it, and if they tried, it would be destroyed. And even if they could use it, I wouldn’t trust them to do it properly. No offence. But for men to have that kind of influence over nature? It would be a disaster.”

John remembered the kiss on his wound. “So, you couldn’t use it on my arm?”

The elf shook his head. “Using it on you would have destroyed it, and my power, which I’d really like to keep, not that I ever plan on ruling or even going back to Aelveden, but I might need it someday. More importantly, destroying that bit of the stone wouldn’t only affect me, it would make the entire elven race just a little weaker.”

John was silent as he processed this information, then said, “We’ve got to keep moving. They’ll come after us. Moriarty isn’t going to give you up that easily. But tonight’s the full moon. It’s best we get through that, then leave in the morning. I’ll be out of here before sunset then come back for you.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Sherlock, I can’t be here tonight.”

“Yes, you can. Don’t you remember? You controlled him. You saved me.”

John rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know if I can do it again.”

“You can, and I’ll help you. You didn’t fight him John; you embraced him, and that made the difference.”

“I don’t know...”

“But I **do**. Maybe we can channel some of that ferocity into something more…constructive.” Sherlock touched John’s face and looked out from under his lashes seductively.

_ Is he actually proposing...? _

_"_Bloody hell, Sherlock! I can’t believe you’d even consider it.”

Sherlock sighed. “I told you that your dark side excites me. What I lack in experience I assure you I make up for in imagination.”

“You’re unbelievable!” Still, the thought sent shivers, the good kind of shivers, down John’s spine and they reverberated deep in his groin as the Wolf paced and whined. 

“Please John. I promise it will be OK. I can stop you if I need to. I’ve got **that **much power.”

John gulped. Was he really going to say yes to this insane plan? He knew deep down that resistance was futile. Dog whistle indeed. He wanted Sherlock, and so did the Wolf. And apparently, the feeling was mutual. 

Sherlock kissed him and whispered “Please,” against his lips.

“Oh, god. Yes,” John whispered back.


	12. Chapter 12

Dinner was roasted rabbit and the berries and mushrooms that Sherlock had gathered while John was hunting. John again stuffed himself to bursting as a precaution. As the sun began to sink in the sky, he built a fire to warm them, and Sherlock rode Aelfwyn to the brook and left him there to graze, coming back on foot. They spread out the blanket and sat close together watching the flames. John took the elf’s chin in his hand and looked into his eyes.

“Are you sure about this?”

Sherlock nodded. "I trust you. You know now how to co-exist, to be a participant and not an observer. John, let him run but keep the leash short. I want the best of both of you. Your light and his darkness." 

“I might hurt you. I probably will hurt you, if this is your first time.”

“I’ve seen your big cock, and that’s just your **human** cock. I can’t even begin to imagine what your **wolf ** cock will be like. I know it's going to hurt, and I don’t care. Sometimes pain is good. It reminds you that you’re alive. I’ve been so sheltered my whole life; protected and coddled until I wanted to scream. I’m ready to live, John. I’m ready to **feel**. And I want to feel you. Inside me. All over me. This bruise,” Sherlock touched the mark on his collarbone, “I like it. I like being yours, and if there are marks on me when the sun comes up, I’ll like them al—"

John crushed his lips to Sherlock’s, and they fell back onto the blanket. He pinned the elf’s wrists above his head as he kissed his lips, his nose, his jaw, his ears, and the hollow of his neck. Already the scent, earthy tonight, was driving him mad. He ground his hips against Sherlock as he devoured him with his lips, tongue and teeth. This morning had been wonderful but too quick, and now he wanted to taste, **needed to** taste and smell every part of him.

“You want my big cock? I’m going to give it to you, sweet elf.”

Sherlock mewled and squirmed as John pulled a pink nipple into his mouth and bit gently, then harder. He released the elf’s wrists and soon felt the long fingers in his hair. He kissed the smooth flat belly and dipped his tongue inside the elf’s navel, causing him to giggle. He ripped off the loincloth with his teeth and flung it aside. Then he knelt and looked down at the form beneath him. The shadows were deepening, and the flames from the fire painted the pale body with dancing golden stripes. His face was flushed, and his kiss-swollen lips slightly parted. With his dark hair spread around him like a halo, he looked like an angel, and there was no way that John could stop now. Not even if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to.

He quickly shed his trousers and dropped back on all fours over Sherlock, kissing his lips, then made his way back down his torso until his tongue tasted the tang of pre-come. He kissed down the hard shaft and then dragged his tongue slowly up, from balls to tip before taking it all into his mouth, holding Sherlock’s bucking hips firmly in place with his hands. Sherlock moaned and tugged at John’s hair, urging him on. John stroked and sucked and felt his own cock hanging heavy and dripping, between his thighs. It was getting darker, and there wasn’t much time left for what needed doing before the Wolf came. He could already feel him flexing his muscles and growling softly, waiting for the moon.

John guided Sherlock to lie on his stomach, then reached in the knapsack for the olive oil. Uncorking it, he drizzled a generous amount in the crack of Sherlock’s arse and poured more into his palm. He gave himself a long slow pull before turning his attention back to the elf. He spread Sherlock’s thighs and knelt between them. Using both hands, he massaged the oil into his buttocks. John was breathing hard and almost trembling with the effort of restraint. If this is what Sherlock wanted, he was going to give it to him, but he was going to do what he could to make it easier.

He spread the fleshy globes and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood at the sight of the tight pucker. Just then, the first prickles danced on the back of his neck. Taking a deep breath, he slid his fingers down the crease and circled his target as Sherlock whimpered softly.

“He’s almost here,” John said.

“Hurry then.”

John pressed one slippery finger in, just to the first knuckle and waited a few seconds before going farther. The prickling was becoming stronger. He had to finish before his body started shifting. He grimaced as he thought of the long sharp claws and kept going. Two fingers. Three.

“You all right?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

With his free hand, he pulled Sherlock to his hands and knees. Then, twisting his wrist, he sought and found the small bit of flesh that he knew would bring the elf pleasure and stroked it.

“Oh, John. Oh, Oh! Just like that!”

John continued to rub his fingertips over the sensitive spot as Sherlock moaned. He stroked until light flashed behind his eyelids. There was no more time. He removed his fingers and guided his cock to Sherlock’s entrance. 

He pushed forward. Then he pushed again, harder. _ Almost. _

“You are so goddamn tight.” He gripped Sherlock’s hips and pulled him back, more roughly than he’d intended and then the head of his cock was inside. 

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped. And John lost all self-control. 

“Fuck, yeah. Take it elf,” John said through gritted teeth, as he gripped Sherlock’s hips harder and buried himself in the elf’s slick, hot arse. 

Sherlock’s body felt so amazing around him that John could no longer concentrate on keeping the Wolf at bay. Searing heat raced through his veins, and his body convulsed as the beast struggled and clawed its way to the surface, snarling and slavering.

The Wolf that used to be John Watson and was still mostly John Watson raised its long snout into the night air and howled at the full moon. John saw his thickly furred paws on Sherlock's flanks. The long curving claws biting into white skin. Saw the elf driven forward again and again with each powerful thrust. _ So good. So tight. Can’t stop. _

Sherlock cried out but didn’t try to escape. His head hung between his shoulders as he braced against the onslaught. The huge Wolf was showing no mercy as he drove into him over and over. He snarled and growled, and frothing ropes of saliva dripped from his jaws onto Sherlock’s trembling back. 

_ “Mine. Mine. MINE!” _ The Wolf, who was also John Watson, screamed these words as he fucked the elf. It was beyond anything John had ever experienced, it was primal and raw and **sublime**. Sherlock keened and moaned beneath him, in ecstasy, pain or both, the John/Wolf didn’t care. His haunches moved faster until he felt the heat gathering in his loins. He howled again, then bared his teeth and buried them in Sherlock’s shoulder as he came.


	13. Chapter 13

After their coupling, they fell to the ground together and lay joined until John’s knot subsided. Then, as Sherlock lay on the blanket, exhausted and bloodied, but smiling, John tenderly licked each scratch, each bite mark, and the raw skin on Sherlock’s knees and between his buttocks. 

When John was satisfied that the elf had been cared for, he lay on his side, panting softly, with Sherlock curled up against him as the full moon began its descent toward the horizon. His great pink tongue reached out and lapped the elf’s bitten shoulder.

Sherlock shifted and mumbled something incoherent, then snuggled closer into the soft fur of John’s belly. John rested his head on his paw and was just about to close his eyes when the wind shifted, and something caught his attention, causing the fur on his back to stand up. On high alert, he lifted his nose into the air. There was definitely something. Something very bad.

John growled deep in his throat. Aelfwyn, who had made his way back to them and was standing nearby, snorted and pawed.

He rose as slowly as he could to avoid waking the sleeping elf and scanned the darkness beyond the reach of the light from the dying fire.

_ “Traitorrrrr,” _hissed a voice.

John growled louder.

“_Did you think I wouldn’t find you. Did you think I wouldn’t find him? He smells so scrumptious. I can see why you want him all for yourself.” _

Aelfwyn whinnied frantically, and John perceived Sherlock’s movement behind him. He had woken.

“John!”

_ “Get out of here, take Aelfwyn and go.” _

_ “ _But—”

_ “NOW! GODDAMMIT!” _

All of John’s senses were trained on the surrounding darkness. The sound of underbrush rustling. The increasing smell of danger. His ears twitched and rotated, trying to pinpoint the sound of movement.

_ “You can’t have him,” _ John said.

The Moriarty/Wolf laughed. “_Of course, I can. I just need to kill you first._ _Something I should have taken care of three years ago. My mistake. _”

A black wolf leapt out of the trees. He was so black that John could barely see him against the night sky, save for the glittering yellow eyes. Lunatic eyes. John rolled just in time, and Moriarty landed in the spot where he had just stood, just as it had happened on the night they first met. But this time John didn’t run. He crouched, snarling and baring his teeth, only barely aware of the thunder of galloping hooves as Aelfwyn carried Sherlock away.

The two wolves circled slowly, each waiting for the right moment to attack. The night was preternaturally still. No birds called; no crickets chirped. It was like all of nature was holding its breath, waiting for the two great beasts to act. The longer John could delay the inevitable, the farther Sherlock would be from danger, and so he backed up a few steps. This was a mistake. Moriarty sensed the weakness, the hesitation, and perhaps the strategy, and lunged. This time John didn’t react quickly enough, and the two wolves rolled over onto the ground.

John tried for the black wolf’s throat and missed. Moriarty bit John’s leg and succeeded only in tearing the flesh, not breaking bone. They rolled together in a snapping, snarling ball, each trying to land a lethal strike. They were well matched in size and strength. Each one was able to wound the other, but neither could quite accomplish a fatal bite to the jugular.

John could feel fatigue start to set in, and he decided that if he was going to lose this fight, he was going to drag it out as long as possible to give the elf the best chance of escape. He squirmed out from under the black wolf and ran in the direction opposite the one in which Sherlock had gone. 

_ “Coward!” _

He heard the black wolf behind him closing fast. He didn’t have much time. _ Think! _John knew this terrain, had hunted on it and explored it every day that they’d camped here. Moriarty did not, at least John hoped he didn’t. Abruptly, John changed course and after a few seconds, wheeled and faced the charging Moriarty. With no hesitation, the black wolf leapt high in the air, white fangs gleaming in the moonlight that streamed through a break in the clouds.

_ “DIE!” _

“_You first,_” John said as he slid on his belly under the flying wolf and away from the ledge of rock that marked the edge of a sheer cliff.

Moriarty landed on the precipice where John had just stood, and momentum carried him over. He screamed. John listened to the scream fade and then stop abruptly. It was over. John collapsed. He had done it. **They** had done it. He and the Wolf. And now, Sherlock would be safe. 


	14. Chapter 14

“John!” The voice seemed to come from very far away. Maybe even from a dream. John ignored it and tried to go back to sleep.

“John!” This time the voice was accompanied by a splash of cold wetness on his face and then a stinging slap.

“Ow!”

John opened his eyes groggily and tried to focus but couldn’t. He could only see a blur of white and black, framed by bright blue. _ Sky? _Everything hurt, and he felt so tired. He wanted to go back to sleep. He closed his eyes.

“No, John, wake up. It’s Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock. _ My Sherlock _. This must be a dream because Sherlock was long gone.

“Dream,” John said.

“No, it’s me. It’s really me. Here, drink.”

John felt cool liquid flow over his lips, and he swallowed. It helped. He opened his eyes again and saw that was lying on the ground near the edge of the cliff, his head in Sherlock’s lap, and the elf was crying.

“Don’t cry.”

“Oh, John.”

“Moriarty is dead.”

“I know, John. You saved me again.”

John was confused. “So why are you crying?” He tried to sit up, but fell back again, gasping. The pain was excruciating. He looked down at his body. Every part of him was red with blood and the ground was dark with it. There were gashes and bites on his chest and arms, but he understood Sherlock’s tears when he saw the deep slash in his belly.

“Oh.”

“I’m not going to let you die, John. I can’t.”

“It’s OK, Sherlock, you’re safe now.” 

“I’m not losing you. Not when I’ve just found you,” Sherlock said, working the earring from his ear.

“You can’t. You’ll lose your power.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“But your family, your people...”

“They’ll survive, even without this,” Sherlock held the stone up to the light. “But I won’t be able to go back, not ever, and I’ll just be an ordinary elf.” 

“You will never be just ordinary,” John said as he reached up to touch Sherlock’s cheek. “Not to me. Will you stay?”

“Of course, I’ll stay with you.”

“I mean really **stay** with me. Come with me somewhere away from all of this. Away from the war. Somewhere we can be together.”

Sherlock smiled, and the tears that welled in his eyes made the colours seem to sparkle.

“I’d follow you anywhere, John Watson. To the ends of the earth.”

“To the moon and back?”

“To the moon and back.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can view the art for this fic [here](http://fav.me/ddisfxn)


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